I'm suddenly reminded of an event on the weekend -- I was returning bottles at Fred Meyers and was nearly involved racial unpleasantness. The lad at the machine I was waiting on seemed kind of hopped up on something; making jokes about stealing my bottles, showing off his fancy new Michael Jordan leisurewear while bemoaning the cost, generally unable to keep his mouth shut and concentrate on putting his bottles through the machine. His contribution to society and my annoyance: "Hey," he asked me, motioning to the Hispanic guys at the other bottle machine, "do you think we could take them, crackers against the beaners?"

Well, I got past that to experience dinner last night with Mrs The Fyd. It was our third anniversary, and we ate at the London Grill in the Benson Hotel. In which hotel we were married, que c'est bizarre et quelle coincidence, to quote the dramatist. Best dinner yet -- I had ostrich medallions in a wonderful curry sauce, with a perfect corn fritter, Mrs The Fyd had lamb chops that were, in my perspective, tainted by a dollop of mushrooms. A rich chocolate cake was provided gratis by the restaurant in honor of the occasion. The waiter was suave. My gift to Mrs The Fyd was an iPod mini engraved with a private joke. I was well pleased that she seemed to really like it.

In other news we now allow Boris the Dog-faced Boy to sleep in bed with us. He, surprisingly, does not take up all that much room and is quiet company, though he needs to be re-settled to the foot of the bed if he tries to steal one's spot after one makes a wee-hours trip to wee. Then he's all dead weight and mysterious groans. The cats are not well pleased.